fic: when the music's gone (2/?)
when the music's gone. chapter two.
by novelized.
fandom: glee - hunger games AU.
pairing: kurt/blaine. some blaine/other in later chapters.
summary: blaine’s only vaguely aware of sam’s hand clamping around his wrist; a strangled noise rises to the front of his throat but he can’t get it out, can’t do anything other than gape.
Blaine’s only vaguely aware of Sam’s hand clamping around his wrist; a strangled noise rises to the front of his throat but he can’t get it out, can’t do anything other than gape, and even though his brain is screaming no! NO! he just stands there and stands there and stands there and trembles. His vision goes all fuzzy for a minute, and this isn’t real, this can’t be real, but then there’s another hand, this one on his back, and he’s snapped into reality, his eyes frantically searching out Kurt in the front, like if they can make eye contact then Blaine will wake up and realize this was all a dumb nightmare, and things are still normal, but up front the crowd is parting and Kurt’s climbing the stairs-why is he climbing the stairs? that's where tributes go, Kurt’s not a tribute, he can’t be a tribute-and taking his spot next to Layla, and he’s so much taller than her, so much older, but every bit as out of place.
Celia’s lips are moving but Blaine can’t hear a word she’s saying. His body makes a strange decision and he jerks forward, like he’s going to run to the stage too, but Sam’s grip on his arm tightens and he can’t go anywhere. Kurt’s not looking at him-if only he would look at him-but instead he keeps his jaw clamped shut, his eyes narrowed at something in the distance, and Blaine realizes distantly that he looks sharp, sleek. Almost dangerous. And maybe that’s why he’s wearing the outfit he wore, maybe he knew-but that’s stupid, how could he have known? Either way Blaine looks skyward and sees Kurt’s face on the giant television screen and he shivers because he looks like he belongs there.
Mayor Motta’s back on stage and Blaine still can’t understand what he’s saying and Sam hasn’t let go of him and nothing makes sense-why is Kurt still standing there? shouldn’t he come down now, join the rest of them?-and then, quickly, too quickly, both Kurt and Layla are shaking hands and then there’s music playing, a song Blaine recognizes too easily, a song that he’s hated since he was old enough to whistle, and then the two of them are being led away from the stage by a couple of Peacekeepers and into a door on their right.
Kurt didn’t try to look for him once.
Blaine realizes, for the first time, that a circle has formed around him, him in the middle, alone.
He looks up at Sam with wide, confused eyes. “I-” he says, but he doesn’t know how to finish that thought, doesn’t even know how to try.
“Go,” Sam says, and he seems older than he really is, not the kid who’d made the short joke fifteen minutes ago. He jerks his chin towards the group and they part obediently, silently, leaving just enough space to squeeze through. “They’ll let you in, they’ll let you see him. I’ll talk to your parents.”
Blaine’s mouth is impossibly dry, and Sam’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist and they notice at the same time; Sam uncurls his fingers and then gives him an encouraging little shove, and Blaine’s grateful because until he’s in motion he wasn’t sure his legs remembered how to move. There are people whispering as he passes, he can hear them, but he can’t make out words except for Hummel and boyfriend and tribute, somewhere, and it’s a good thing his family doesn’t do big reaping day breakfasts, a good thing his stomach is still mostly unfed, because he’d probably get sick all over his good pair of shoes. There are three Peacekeepers with machine guns strapped in front of their chests guarding the entrance to the building. Blaine stops short of them-he’s spent most of his life trying fervently to avoid them, why start a conversation when it could only lead to trouble?-and looks up, and if it were anyone but Kurt inside those doors he’d probably have turned and fled.
“I’m Blaine Anderson,” he says, sounding incredibly unsure of himself. “Kurt’s my-my-”
“Blaine,” says a voice from behind him, and Blaine turns to see Finn standing there, pale-faced and looking younger than he actually is. Finn swallows thickly. “They’re going to let us in over here. In a minute.” He gestures and Blaine follows his gaze and he sees, with another torturous twist of his stomach, Kurt’s parents standing together, tears streaming down Burt’s face, Carole whispering slow and steadily into Burt’s ear. This is a family moment, and Blaine knows he should give them space, and so he goes to stand off to the side-but when Burt sees him, he opens his arms, and instead Blaine walks directly into them.
Burt tucks his chin over Blaine’s head and squeezes him so tightly that the breath’s knocked out of him, and Blaine can’t pretend this isn’t happening so he just hangs on that much tighter. He doesn’t know how much time passes. When Burt pulls away, Carole strokes the hair at the back of Blaine’s neck, the way his mother used to when he was a little boy. “We have to be strong for Kurt,” she says, and then looks to Finn, like he’s the only one who has an actual chance. “You’re his brother, Finn. He needs you.”
Finn nods solemnly. Burt reaches for his hand and he lets him take it; they look strange, a grown man and his grown stepson, but now is not the time for normalcy. Nothing about this is normal.
A Peacekeeper gestures towards them, and it’s time, and Blaine sucks in a breath deeper than his lungs will allow and together, the four of them, they follow him inside.
Blaine has never been inside this building before; it strikes him, vaguely, how nice it is, and fragile-looking, the exact opposite of everything he’s come to know in life. Except for his relationship with Kurt, maybe. Beautiful and fragile. Stability doesn’t exist outside the Capitol.
They’re taken into a hallway with rich carpet and a solid oak door; there are velvet couches and actual paintings on the walls. Blaine doesn’t sit down. He doesn’t know what velvet feels like and this isn’t how he wants to find out. “He has one hour for visitors,” the Head Peacekeeper tells them, no emotion to his voice, all business, “and one hour only. Decide amongst yourselves how to split up. You will be timed, and you will adhere to said time; failure to obey will result in grave consequences. I advise you not to test that. Who’s going first?”
“We will,” Burt says, and his eyes are still glossy. He links hands with Carole and then looks at Finn. “Do you want to come in with us?”
Finn shakes his head. “You guys go. I’ll go next.”
They nod, and the Peacekeeper opens the door. The last thing Blaine hears before it closes is a slightly muffled sob.
For a minute, it’s just Finn and Blaine. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak. What could they possibly say? It’s a cruel waiting game with no winner at the end of it, and Blaine’s actually glad when the silence is broken-when another Peacekeeper appears, flanked by none other than Sugar Motta. Blaine blinks in surprise at her arrival. She’s still chewing that damn bubblegum.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks, and Blaine’s glad that he doesn’t have to; he doesn’t do a great job at keeping the contempt out of his voice, either, and Sugar just rolls her eyes.
“The same thing you are,” she says, and then she tugs on the sleeve of the Peacekeeper. Blaine almost recoils a little. Just by instinct. Sugar, though, looks unfazed. “Can you tell my daddy that I’m here?” and then, without waiting for a response, “Thanks, you’re a doll.”
The Peacekeeper looks disgruntled but, after a second, turns and leaves. Sugar snaps her gum and looks at Blaine. “Most of these guys get off on misbehavior,” she says, as if they’re old friends, as if they’ve said more than ten words to each other in their entire lives. “They don’t know what to do with themselves when you’re cute and charming, like me.”
“Do you even know what’s going on?” Finn demands angrily, and Sugar sighs.
“Of course I do. I’m here to give Kurt a gift. I think it’ll totally help him win-I mean, he really has a chance.”
She is, Blaine realizes, the first person who’s said that. The anger slowly drains out of him, and it’s replaced by something else; he’s not sure what, but he flashes a small smile at Sugar. The ghost of a smile. The closest thing to a smile he can muster.
Before he can say anything, though, the Peacekeeper nearest the door steps inside. Blaine purposely doesn’t listen in, but a second later, Burt and Carole are led out with the Peacekeeper at their backs, making sure they don’t try to turn around. Neither of them are holding it together this time. Watching Carole cry makes him ache and Blaine’s own eyes are wet by the time the Peacekeeper beckons the next person forward. Finn takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and then he thumps Blaine on the back and steps inside for his turn.
Blaine presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He tries to plan what he’s going to say when he sees Kurt, but he comes up empty; no amount of I’m so sorrys and this isn’t rights could make this better. It still doesn’t feel real. He shouldn’t be here. None of them should.
“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”
He looks up. Sugar actually looks sympathetic, a frown tugging at her bright red lips. “Yeah,” Blaine says, quietly. “He is.”
“I thought so.” Sugar drops down onto one of the velvet couches; she doesn’t look surprised by the feel at all. Maybe she’s used to them. Maybe her bed is covered in velvet blankets. “I saw the way you always looked at him. You guys are, like, totally in love, right?”
“Yeah,” Blaine says, more firmly this time. “We are.”
“Well,” she says, and there’s a glint of something in her eye, determined, purposeful, “the Capitol loves a sad story. But not as much as they love a happy ending, as long as they’re the ones who make it.” She pauses, considers. “And as long as everyone involved is really, really attractive.”
Blaine’s about to ask what she means-the first part, about the Capitol-when the door opens again; this time Finn shuffles out, a good foot in front of the Peacekeeper, and his eyes are thankfully dry. “Next,” the Peacekeeper says, and that’s him, and he’s not ready, all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough time, this can’t be happening, but he’s pretty sure his countdown has already started so he forces himself to go inside.
Kurt’s back is turned to him; he’s facing the window, looking out over the town, his neck bent. Blaine’s jaw trembles. “Kurt,” he says, and his voice breaks. Kurt turns and Blaine doesn’t waste any time. He crosses the room and throws himself straight into Kurt’s arms.
“Kurt,” he repeats, biting back a sob, and Kurt clings hard at his back, fingernails scrabbling at his skin even through the heavy material of his dad’s best jacket. “Kurt, I’m so sorry this shouldn’t have happened it’s not fair-”
“It’s okay,” Kurt says, more to himself than to Blaine, and he squeezes his eyes shut and says it two more times, like maybe if he says it enough it’ll actually come true. “It’s okay, it’s okay-”
Blaine brings his hands up to cup Kurt’s cheeks; he refuses to believe this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch him like this, ever get to touch him period. “I love you so much,” he breathes, “please, Kurt, try to win. Try, okay? You have to.”
“I will. I promise I will. But-”
“No,” Blaine says, cutting him off, and he presses his mouth against the side of Kurt’s jaw, takes in a deep breath like he wants to memorize the smell of him. “No buts. You’re smart, you’re so incredibly smart, you can outwit them.”
“Most people don’t win based on how smart they are,” Kurt says, a dry attempt at humor to his voice, but it’s not funny, not at all. “Although they’ve probably never had a tribute that knows the difference between chiffon and tulle, we’ll see how far that will get me.”
“When have you ever seen tulle?” Blaine asks, because it’s easier than the alternative, because they’re still doing their dance, even when this might be-could be-
“I haven’t.” Kurt smiles ruefully, or, at least, he tries to. “Only in pictures. But maybe in the Capitol-”
And there it is again. Blaine makes a small choked noise and Kurt’s eyes close and a single tear escapes, rolls right down his cheek and drops off onto the stupidly expensive plush carpet floor, and he presses his forehead up against Blaine’s. “Can you-can you just make sure my dad’s okay? That he’s not working too hard?”
“I will,” Blaine says, “while you’re gone, until you come back-”
“Blaine, if I come back-”
“When-”
“I don’t know how to-” Kurt sucks in a breath and then lets it out, and he deflates, almost, like the air is actually blowing out of him, like he’s going to wither into nothing. He can’t go. Blaine can’t let him go.
The door bangs open. “It’s time,” the head Peacekeeper says, and Blaine’s spine stiffens. He feels like he’s only been there thirty seconds, maybe ten, it can’t possibly be time, and he pulls Kurt into a crushing kiss, tries to put everything he wants to say into it, tangles his fingers up into Kurt’s so they can’t tell where one hand starts and the other one stops, and too soon there’s a tight grip around his wrist, yanking him backwards, away from Kurt, and he struggles a little without even realizing he’s doing it. “I love you, Kurt,” he says, and then he’s being tugged through the door and it closes in his face, and he thinks instantaneously of all the things he meant to say but didn’t, and there’s one thing in particular, something he should’ve said an hour ago, when they first drew Kurt’s name from the glass bowl, and that’s I volunteer.
+
Blaine’s parents are waiting for him outside. Most of the people have dispersed; back to their big celebratory dinners, to toasting to the fact that it’s not their kid this time. The thought makes Blaine nauseous. Seeing his own parents doesn’t do much for relief.
“Blaine-” his dad starts, but he just feels empty and hollow inside, and nothing anyone could say could change that.
“Please,” he says, “don’t. Not right now.”
So he doesn’t.
They walk back together, because where else would Blaine go? It feels wrong, though, completely wrong, like he should’ve stayed back with Kurt-he’ll be boarding the train soon, he knows, the one that rolls directly into the Capitol, where he’ll begin-he can’t even think about it-and Blaine’s supposed to pick up life as normal, go to school and work in the field and come home and then, that’s the worst part, the part he didn’t think of, the TVs will flicker on and he’ll be expected to tune in with the rest of them, he’ll be expected to watch his boyfriend fight to the death.
The words burst out before he can stop them. “It’s not fair,” he says loudly, turning on the spot, not even sure who he’s addressing, just that he needs to say it. “It’s not-”
His dad grabs his arm roughly, grabbing him with more intention than he has in the last five years. “Blaine,” he hisses, sharp, “do you want to make it worse?”
And that is the sad, horrifying truth.
It could be worse.
It could be.
+
Blaine spends the rest of the evening laying on his thin mattress and staring at the ceiling. He can hear the telecast coming in from the front room; his parents are in there watching, like good citizens are supposed to do. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see the faces of the other competitors, doesn’t want to think of them as real people. Instead they are roadblocks. Nonhuman entities separating him from Kurt. It’s the only way he’ll allow himself to think.
Just because he can’t see doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear, though. He does. He hears Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith rehashing the moments when the names are chosen, hears them ooh and ahh over the Careers, hear them fake-boohoo about Layla Cartwright, the youngest tribute this year, and tries to block out their voices when they talk about Kurt but he can’t, he hears every word they say, from the lack of surprise on his face-why, why had there been a lack of surprise-to his outfit, his outfit, “You know, I’m impressed,” Caesar says, like he’s doing Kurt a big favor, “not sure I’ve ever seen that sort of fashion from District 7. Maybe there’s more up Kurt Hummel’s sleeve than the cross-stitched name of a talented seamstress.”
“He made that shirt,” Blaine tells the ceiling, but the ceiling doesn’t seem to care.
His mother asks if he wants dinner just before sundown-he doesn’t, though, and it’s probably good, because they don’t have too much to eat. His parents leave him alone for the rest of the night. He drifts in and out of sleep, in and out of consciousness; every time he’s close to real sleep he relives the moment, Kurt’s name being called, or Burt’s eyes shining with tears, or how desperately Kurt had grabbed him, grabbed him like he’d never want to let go, and Blaine jerks awake each time and gasps for breath until he’s able to calm down.
And then the process starts again.
It’s not until halfway through the night, Blaine’s eyes burning with lack of sleep, does he allow his mind to wander. It somehow ends up on Sugar, and what she was doing there, why she would be there, and she said she had something to give Kurt-but what she’d said after that, that was the important part. He really has a chance, she’d said. Like she’d meant it. Like it was common knowledge.
And he did. He did. Why not Kurt? Someone had to win.
He really has a chance.
Blaine eventually falls into an uneasy rest, but at least his mind is more at peace-believing, truly, that he does.
by novelized.
fandom: glee - hunger games AU.
pairing: kurt/blaine. some blaine/other in later chapters.
summary: blaine’s only vaguely aware of sam’s hand clamping around his wrist; a strangled noise rises to the front of his throat but he can’t get it out, can’t do anything other than gape.
Blaine’s only vaguely aware of Sam’s hand clamping around his wrist; a strangled noise rises to the front of his throat but he can’t get it out, can’t do anything other than gape, and even though his brain is screaming no! NO! he just stands there and stands there and stands there and trembles. His vision goes all fuzzy for a minute, and this isn’t real, this can’t be real, but then there’s another hand, this one on his back, and he’s snapped into reality, his eyes frantically searching out Kurt in the front, like if they can make eye contact then Blaine will wake up and realize this was all a dumb nightmare, and things are still normal, but up front the crowd is parting and Kurt’s climbing the stairs-why is he climbing the stairs? that's where tributes go, Kurt’s not a tribute, he can’t be a tribute-and taking his spot next to Layla, and he’s so much taller than her, so much older, but every bit as out of place.
Celia’s lips are moving but Blaine can’t hear a word she’s saying. His body makes a strange decision and he jerks forward, like he’s going to run to the stage too, but Sam’s grip on his arm tightens and he can’t go anywhere. Kurt’s not looking at him-if only he would look at him-but instead he keeps his jaw clamped shut, his eyes narrowed at something in the distance, and Blaine realizes distantly that he looks sharp, sleek. Almost dangerous. And maybe that’s why he’s wearing the outfit he wore, maybe he knew-but that’s stupid, how could he have known? Either way Blaine looks skyward and sees Kurt’s face on the giant television screen and he shivers because he looks like he belongs there.
Mayor Motta’s back on stage and Blaine still can’t understand what he’s saying and Sam hasn’t let go of him and nothing makes sense-why is Kurt still standing there? shouldn’t he come down now, join the rest of them?-and then, quickly, too quickly, both Kurt and Layla are shaking hands and then there’s music playing, a song Blaine recognizes too easily, a song that he’s hated since he was old enough to whistle, and then the two of them are being led away from the stage by a couple of Peacekeepers and into a door on their right.
Kurt didn’t try to look for him once.
Blaine realizes, for the first time, that a circle has formed around him, him in the middle, alone.
He looks up at Sam with wide, confused eyes. “I-” he says, but he doesn’t know how to finish that thought, doesn’t even know how to try.
“Go,” Sam says, and he seems older than he really is, not the kid who’d made the short joke fifteen minutes ago. He jerks his chin towards the group and they part obediently, silently, leaving just enough space to squeeze through. “They’ll let you in, they’ll let you see him. I’ll talk to your parents.”
Blaine’s mouth is impossibly dry, and Sam’s hand is still wrapped around his wrist and they notice at the same time; Sam uncurls his fingers and then gives him an encouraging little shove, and Blaine’s grateful because until he’s in motion he wasn’t sure his legs remembered how to move. There are people whispering as he passes, he can hear them, but he can’t make out words except for Hummel and boyfriend and tribute, somewhere, and it’s a good thing his family doesn’t do big reaping day breakfasts, a good thing his stomach is still mostly unfed, because he’d probably get sick all over his good pair of shoes. There are three Peacekeepers with machine guns strapped in front of their chests guarding the entrance to the building. Blaine stops short of them-he’s spent most of his life trying fervently to avoid them, why start a conversation when it could only lead to trouble?-and looks up, and if it were anyone but Kurt inside those doors he’d probably have turned and fled.
“I’m Blaine Anderson,” he says, sounding incredibly unsure of himself. “Kurt’s my-my-”
“Blaine,” says a voice from behind him, and Blaine turns to see Finn standing there, pale-faced and looking younger than he actually is. Finn swallows thickly. “They’re going to let us in over here. In a minute.” He gestures and Blaine follows his gaze and he sees, with another torturous twist of his stomach, Kurt’s parents standing together, tears streaming down Burt’s face, Carole whispering slow and steadily into Burt’s ear. This is a family moment, and Blaine knows he should give them space, and so he goes to stand off to the side-but when Burt sees him, he opens his arms, and instead Blaine walks directly into them.
Burt tucks his chin over Blaine’s head and squeezes him so tightly that the breath’s knocked out of him, and Blaine can’t pretend this isn’t happening so he just hangs on that much tighter. He doesn’t know how much time passes. When Burt pulls away, Carole strokes the hair at the back of Blaine’s neck, the way his mother used to when he was a little boy. “We have to be strong for Kurt,” she says, and then looks to Finn, like he’s the only one who has an actual chance. “You’re his brother, Finn. He needs you.”
Finn nods solemnly. Burt reaches for his hand and he lets him take it; they look strange, a grown man and his grown stepson, but now is not the time for normalcy. Nothing about this is normal.
A Peacekeeper gestures towards them, and it’s time, and Blaine sucks in a breath deeper than his lungs will allow and together, the four of them, they follow him inside.
Blaine has never been inside this building before; it strikes him, vaguely, how nice it is, and fragile-looking, the exact opposite of everything he’s come to know in life. Except for his relationship with Kurt, maybe. Beautiful and fragile. Stability doesn’t exist outside the Capitol.
They’re taken into a hallway with rich carpet and a solid oak door; there are velvet couches and actual paintings on the walls. Blaine doesn’t sit down. He doesn’t know what velvet feels like and this isn’t how he wants to find out. “He has one hour for visitors,” the Head Peacekeeper tells them, no emotion to his voice, all business, “and one hour only. Decide amongst yourselves how to split up. You will be timed, and you will adhere to said time; failure to obey will result in grave consequences. I advise you not to test that. Who’s going first?”
“We will,” Burt says, and his eyes are still glossy. He links hands with Carole and then looks at Finn. “Do you want to come in with us?”
Finn shakes his head. “You guys go. I’ll go next.”
They nod, and the Peacekeeper opens the door. The last thing Blaine hears before it closes is a slightly muffled sob.
For a minute, it’s just Finn and Blaine. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak. What could they possibly say? It’s a cruel waiting game with no winner at the end of it, and Blaine’s actually glad when the silence is broken-when another Peacekeeper appears, flanked by none other than Sugar Motta. Blaine blinks in surprise at her arrival. She’s still chewing that damn bubblegum.
“What are you doing?” Finn asks, and Blaine’s glad that he doesn’t have to; he doesn’t do a great job at keeping the contempt out of his voice, either, and Sugar just rolls her eyes.
“The same thing you are,” she says, and then she tugs on the sleeve of the Peacekeeper. Blaine almost recoils a little. Just by instinct. Sugar, though, looks unfazed. “Can you tell my daddy that I’m here?” and then, without waiting for a response, “Thanks, you’re a doll.”
The Peacekeeper looks disgruntled but, after a second, turns and leaves. Sugar snaps her gum and looks at Blaine. “Most of these guys get off on misbehavior,” she says, as if they’re old friends, as if they’ve said more than ten words to each other in their entire lives. “They don’t know what to do with themselves when you’re cute and charming, like me.”
“Do you even know what’s going on?” Finn demands angrily, and Sugar sighs.
“Of course I do. I’m here to give Kurt a gift. I think it’ll totally help him win-I mean, he really has a chance.”
She is, Blaine realizes, the first person who’s said that. The anger slowly drains out of him, and it’s replaced by something else; he’s not sure what, but he flashes a small smile at Sugar. The ghost of a smile. The closest thing to a smile he can muster.
Before he can say anything, though, the Peacekeeper nearest the door steps inside. Blaine purposely doesn’t listen in, but a second later, Burt and Carole are led out with the Peacekeeper at their backs, making sure they don’t try to turn around. Neither of them are holding it together this time. Watching Carole cry makes him ache and Blaine’s own eyes are wet by the time the Peacekeeper beckons the next person forward. Finn takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and then he thumps Blaine on the back and steps inside for his turn.
Blaine presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He tries to plan what he’s going to say when he sees Kurt, but he comes up empty; no amount of I’m so sorrys and this isn’t rights could make this better. It still doesn’t feel real. He shouldn’t be here. None of them should.
“He’s your boyfriend, isn’t he?”
He looks up. Sugar actually looks sympathetic, a frown tugging at her bright red lips. “Yeah,” Blaine says, quietly. “He is.”
“I thought so.” Sugar drops down onto one of the velvet couches; she doesn’t look surprised by the feel at all. Maybe she’s used to them. Maybe her bed is covered in velvet blankets. “I saw the way you always looked at him. You guys are, like, totally in love, right?”
“Yeah,” Blaine says, more firmly this time. “We are.”
“Well,” she says, and there’s a glint of something in her eye, determined, purposeful, “the Capitol loves a sad story. But not as much as they love a happy ending, as long as they’re the ones who make it.” She pauses, considers. “And as long as everyone involved is really, really attractive.”
Blaine’s about to ask what she means-the first part, about the Capitol-when the door opens again; this time Finn shuffles out, a good foot in front of the Peacekeeper, and his eyes are thankfully dry. “Next,” the Peacekeeper says, and that’s him, and he’s not ready, all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough time, this can’t be happening, but he’s pretty sure his countdown has already started so he forces himself to go inside.
Kurt’s back is turned to him; he’s facing the window, looking out over the town, his neck bent. Blaine’s jaw trembles. “Kurt,” he says, and his voice breaks. Kurt turns and Blaine doesn’t waste any time. He crosses the room and throws himself straight into Kurt’s arms.
“Kurt,” he repeats, biting back a sob, and Kurt clings hard at his back, fingernails scrabbling at his skin even through the heavy material of his dad’s best jacket. “Kurt, I’m so sorry this shouldn’t have happened it’s not fair-”
“It’s okay,” Kurt says, more to himself than to Blaine, and he squeezes his eyes shut and says it two more times, like maybe if he says it enough it’ll actually come true. “It’s okay, it’s okay-”
Blaine brings his hands up to cup Kurt’s cheeks; he refuses to believe this is the last time he’ll ever get to touch him like this, ever get to touch him period. “I love you so much,” he breathes, “please, Kurt, try to win. Try, okay? You have to.”
“I will. I promise I will. But-”
“No,” Blaine says, cutting him off, and he presses his mouth against the side of Kurt’s jaw, takes in a deep breath like he wants to memorize the smell of him. “No buts. You’re smart, you’re so incredibly smart, you can outwit them.”
“Most people don’t win based on how smart they are,” Kurt says, a dry attempt at humor to his voice, but it’s not funny, not at all. “Although they’ve probably never had a tribute that knows the difference between chiffon and tulle, we’ll see how far that will get me.”
“When have you ever seen tulle?” Blaine asks, because it’s easier than the alternative, because they’re still doing their dance, even when this might be-could be-
“I haven’t.” Kurt smiles ruefully, or, at least, he tries to. “Only in pictures. But maybe in the Capitol-”
And there it is again. Blaine makes a small choked noise and Kurt’s eyes close and a single tear escapes, rolls right down his cheek and drops off onto the stupidly expensive plush carpet floor, and he presses his forehead up against Blaine’s. “Can you-can you just make sure my dad’s okay? That he’s not working too hard?”
“I will,” Blaine says, “while you’re gone, until you come back-”
“Blaine, if I come back-”
“When-”
“I don’t know how to-” Kurt sucks in a breath and then lets it out, and he deflates, almost, like the air is actually blowing out of him, like he’s going to wither into nothing. He can’t go. Blaine can’t let him go.
The door bangs open. “It’s time,” the head Peacekeeper says, and Blaine’s spine stiffens. He feels like he’s only been there thirty seconds, maybe ten, it can’t possibly be time, and he pulls Kurt into a crushing kiss, tries to put everything he wants to say into it, tangles his fingers up into Kurt’s so they can’t tell where one hand starts and the other one stops, and too soon there’s a tight grip around his wrist, yanking him backwards, away from Kurt, and he struggles a little without even realizing he’s doing it. “I love you, Kurt,” he says, and then he’s being tugged through the door and it closes in his face, and he thinks instantaneously of all the things he meant to say but didn’t, and there’s one thing in particular, something he should’ve said an hour ago, when they first drew Kurt’s name from the glass bowl, and that’s I volunteer.
+
Blaine’s parents are waiting for him outside. Most of the people have dispersed; back to their big celebratory dinners, to toasting to the fact that it’s not their kid this time. The thought makes Blaine nauseous. Seeing his own parents doesn’t do much for relief.
“Blaine-” his dad starts, but he just feels empty and hollow inside, and nothing anyone could say could change that.
“Please,” he says, “don’t. Not right now.”
So he doesn’t.
They walk back together, because where else would Blaine go? It feels wrong, though, completely wrong, like he should’ve stayed back with Kurt-he’ll be boarding the train soon, he knows, the one that rolls directly into the Capitol, where he’ll begin-he can’t even think about it-and Blaine’s supposed to pick up life as normal, go to school and work in the field and come home and then, that’s the worst part, the part he didn’t think of, the TVs will flicker on and he’ll be expected to tune in with the rest of them, he’ll be expected to watch his boyfriend fight to the death.
The words burst out before he can stop them. “It’s not fair,” he says loudly, turning on the spot, not even sure who he’s addressing, just that he needs to say it. “It’s not-”
His dad grabs his arm roughly, grabbing him with more intention than he has in the last five years. “Blaine,” he hisses, sharp, “do you want to make it worse?”
And that is the sad, horrifying truth.
It could be worse.
It could be.
+
Blaine spends the rest of the evening laying on his thin mattress and staring at the ceiling. He can hear the telecast coming in from the front room; his parents are in there watching, like good citizens are supposed to do. He can’t. He doesn’t want to see the faces of the other competitors, doesn’t want to think of them as real people. Instead they are roadblocks. Nonhuman entities separating him from Kurt. It’s the only way he’ll allow himself to think.
Just because he can’t see doesn’t mean he doesn’t hear, though. He does. He hears Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith rehashing the moments when the names are chosen, hears them ooh and ahh over the Careers, hear them fake-boohoo about Layla Cartwright, the youngest tribute this year, and tries to block out their voices when they talk about Kurt but he can’t, he hears every word they say, from the lack of surprise on his face-why, why had there been a lack of surprise-to his outfit, his outfit, “You know, I’m impressed,” Caesar says, like he’s doing Kurt a big favor, “not sure I’ve ever seen that sort of fashion from District 7. Maybe there’s more up Kurt Hummel’s sleeve than the cross-stitched name of a talented seamstress.”
“He made that shirt,” Blaine tells the ceiling, but the ceiling doesn’t seem to care.
His mother asks if he wants dinner just before sundown-he doesn’t, though, and it’s probably good, because they don’t have too much to eat. His parents leave him alone for the rest of the night. He drifts in and out of sleep, in and out of consciousness; every time he’s close to real sleep he relives the moment, Kurt’s name being called, or Burt’s eyes shining with tears, or how desperately Kurt had grabbed him, grabbed him like he’d never want to let go, and Blaine jerks awake each time and gasps for breath until he’s able to calm down.
And then the process starts again.
It’s not until halfway through the night, Blaine’s eyes burning with lack of sleep, does he allow his mind to wander. It somehow ends up on Sugar, and what she was doing there, why she would be there, and she said she had something to give Kurt-but what she’d said after that, that was the important part. He really has a chance, she’d said. Like she’d meant it. Like it was common knowledge.
And he did. He did. Why not Kurt? Someone had to win.
He really has a chance.
Blaine eventually falls into an uneasy rest, but at least his mind is more at peace-believing, truly, that he does.